


His pride, his joy

by mqlecshipper



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Dead Philip Hamilton, How Do I Tag, I Made Myself Cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 06:34:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20353981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mqlecshipper/pseuds/mqlecshipper
Summary: Philip Hamilton's death, retold from Alexander's point of view.





	His pride, his joy

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely based off Hamilton the musical by Lin Manuel Miranda, and is not based off the actual historical Alexander Hamilton's life. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!

“NO!” Eliza screamed. The scream seemed to pierce everything around them. The doctor froze in surprise. Alexander did too. Philip lay in front of him, dead. Dead, dead, dead. That wasn’t possible, was it? His Philip, his pride, his joy, the only thing that mattered to him nowadays, dead. Covered in blood. Dead. He vaguely heard Eliza’s heart wrenching sobs.

Angelica had arrived sometime in the past few minutes. Alexander heard Angelica whisper to Eliza. He couldn’t make out the words. Everything was blurred and jarred. Alexander found his right hand still gripping one Philip’s hands. It was the right hand. It must have been the one that held the gun. The gun that he held, trying to protect his father’s legacy.

Alexander felt himself scoffing. Philip died trying to protect his father’s legacy. Alexander’s legacy. As if Alexander’s legacy was more important than his son’s life. Philip, who always seemed so energetic and enthusiastic. Philip who had come to ask advice for his very first duel. Alexander had handed him his pistol. His pistol. What kind of a father let his son go to a duel for his legacy? What kind of a letter let their son die for him?

Alexander felt the hot tears pushing the back of his eyes, trying to make their escape. They couldn’t. They couldn’t because Philip couldn’t be dead, because he had been alive and breathing, although wounded, minutes ago. He had been talking, breathing, moving. Alexander couldn’t move his eyes away from his son. Philip’s hair looked so dark, so much darker than usual, or maybe it was his skin that was paler, he did lose a lot of blood and his skin was so white because of that, but it would be fine once he recovered. Except that he would never recover.

Alexander felt emptiness. His heart felt empty. Empty, but also a box of infinite sorrow. But he still couldn’t move. He wanted to scream. He couldn’t. He wanted to cry. He couldn’t. He seemed to be frozen in that motion, holding Philip’s bloodstained hands, watching him speak his last words. The emptiness hurt. God. It hurt so much. It felt like his heart was being crushed from the inside. As if it’s deepest core had collapsed.

But still, Alexander couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t move. He wondered if he was even breathing. It was as if the mask that he always had on, the same neutral face, the cold expressions, the calm and collected attitude couldn’t be crushed along with his heart. The hollowness hurt so much. Alexander had to do something. He had to move. He had to shout. He had to scream. He had to blame himself for what had happened.

Suddenly he felt his legs move. They were running, breaking into a sprint, and before he knew it, he was in the street, taking in the cold New York air. The air was freezing, but it cleared his mind. The memory came back, Philip’s red blood, Philip apologizing, Philip singing with Eliza, Philip talking, Philip breathing, Philip alive. The memories seemed so saturated. So much vibrance everywhere. His blood was redder than the ripest apple, his hair darker than moonless night sky. In the memory, his face was paler than snow, his hand smoother than the best ceramics.

Everything had seemed so perfect, frozen in time.

Alexander just then felt the rain. The rain was cold, seeping into his coat. There were almost no people on the streets, and the ones who were there hurried past, not giving a second glance at Alexander. He slumped against the hospital’s brick wall. He fall, holding his knees, burying his head into them. Alexander still couldn’t scream. The fat, cruel, cold raindrops kept falling around him. The brick wall seemed too red. The floor too rough. The rain too cold. Cruelly cold. Everything was too cruel.

The world too cruel. It was always too cruel. Philip, dead. Philip, who’s smile was brighter than the sun. Philip, who could make Eliza smile just by looking at her. Philip, the sunshine of their whole family. Philip, who was dead. Philip was dead. Alexander should have been the one to die. He could have talked Philip out of the duel, he could have stopped him from going, he could have refused to give him the pistol, oh, he could have done so many things to stop Philip from going the duel.

His face was covered in water. Rain. The tears still couldn’t be released, and Alexander felt a lump in his throat, and he tried it swallow it, but he couldn’t. He sat there, his shoulders hunched and shuddering. The hollowness in his chest was still there. He had never felt so empty. Is this how he was supposed to feel? He remembered when his mother died. His heart hadn’t felt empty. It had felt soaked with grief. When Eliza figured out about Maria, he hadn’t felt hollow. He had felt sad and shameful. What was wrong with him now? The rain, the cold, the emptiness, the pain, it was still all there. It all felt like it was stretched forever.

“Dad?” A quiet voice sounded, after what felt like forever. Alexander refused to look up. If a kid had mistaken him for his father, let him be.

“Dad!” The voice shouted. Alexander realised that the pouring had stopped to a drizzle.

There was a warm hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Dad, are you alright?” Alexander finally recognized the voice. It was little Alex. Alexander was surprised to hear how mature he sounded. It seemed like days ago when he and Philip had run around together in the park, trying to catch butterflies. Philip, he realized with a pang in his chest.

“Dad, what happened?” His voice sounded anxious.

Alexander quickly wiped all emotions from his face. He realized that his coat was soaking wet and also bloodstained. His little Alex must have been so worried. He stood up, and he felt his face become stern again, all the emotions hidden, his voice calm.

“Nothing.” He quickly said, wrapping an arm around his son. Then he realized. Alex probably didn’t know what had happened to Philip.

“Dad, I was so worried, I was with aunt Angelica, they took her to the hospital, they said that something was wrong with Philip, I was so worried, dad, he’s alright, right? Please tell me that Philip is fine.”

Alexander couldn’t bring himself to say anything. The hollowness was felt again. It was like a rapid rush of pain in his chest. He couldn’t speak.

“No… no no no no no. Dad, this has to be a lie, it can’t be true, right?”

Little Alexander stared at him. He was taller than his own father. When had he gotten so tall? He was only fifteen, yet he was so tall.

“Come, I’ll take you to see him. You can say your goodbye.” Alexander said after a long silence. He heard his own voice tremble. It was trembling badly. So was his hand. His whole body was shaking.

Alexander Jr. looked down at him with an odd expression in his eyes. What was that, pity? Alex looked down at his own father with pity. He had always had a close relationship with his mother. He had never been very close to Alexander. And now, he was looking at him, pity in his eyes, while his father tried to not cry.

“It’s… It’s all right. I can manage by myself.” Alexander felt blame in those words. It was worse than him straight down blaming Alexander. He felt the words ‘it’s all your fault’ hidden between them, and it pierced his heart.

He still followed his son inside the hospital. Eliza was still sobbing, Angelica next to her. Little Alex quietly knelt beside his mother, and they both cried over Philip, not even bothering to look at Alexander. He didn’t think that anybody noticed that he was there. Even Angelica didn’t bother to look at him.

He quietly dragged his feet out of the hospital, and walked, with no particular destination. His feet took him to his house. Into his office. His feet moved towards his desk. It was habit. The familiar cherrywood desk seemed too dark, or maybe it was too bright in the room, the red velvet chair was ridiculously clear, the red too dark, it looked like blood. Philip’s blood.

Alexander buried his hand inside his hair. It was still wet. He picked up his quill. The same quill that Philip had given him for his birthday last year. Philip, Philip, Philip. The name rang in his head over and over. He had never felt like this. Not when his mother had died, not when Laurens had died. He crumpled and clenched the quill in his hand. He felt the sharp point of the quill as it pierced his hand. It didn’t even hurt. But it brought him back to his senses. He had to write. He had to do something, he couldn’t just sit there doing nothing. There were endless papers to be found, documents to be identified, essays to be written. He sat there, with a blank paper in front of him, and his mind was blank. He didn’t know what he could write.

He stared at his hands, the bloodstained hands, and thought for the first time that he was completely helpless.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a jumble of feelings. Thanks for reading, I guess.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fic, and please let me know if you enjoyed!


End file.
